Hector’s silver armour clanks as his feet stomp toward the bakery. With furrowed brows, his fingers curl around the worn handle, dyed a dull brown with remnants of gold. The breath he takes is a deep one, before he pushes forward, listens to the wood creak, the only sound capable of turning him into a puddle of jitters. “Anne-Marie, hello.” He nods, acknowledges the young woman that tends the counter and serves a customer who eyes her red, braided strands with hunger surpassing that of which is appropriate in a place not meant for nightly pleasures but food.

Anne-Marie turns to fetch a loaf of bread. The customer leans in with the nastiest of smiles creeping up the sides of his face. Hector clears his throat. He straightens up, threads one hand through his bluntly cut hair and glares down at the stranger twice his junior in size. “Excuse me.” Hector walks past the man who takes a step back, intimated by the knight’s growing presence. With a single palm pressed to his sword to prevent jingles, the other reaching for three pieces of round dough, Hector pauses. A poster catches his eye, one hung up by their king—the all-knowing ruler; healer to all. Friend to their allies. Misery to their enemies.

The ringing of a bell signals the patron finally taking his leave. It brings Hector out of his thoughts. He jumps, surprised—even if only slightly—by the sudden noise and Anne-Marie’s chuckles, half-heartedly muffled by her fist pressed to lips Hector always gawks at for seconds too long despite having known her for years.

Anne-Marie wipes her frail hands from pale dust on her apron. She leans against a counter filled with colourful treats that never fail to be successful amongst the most gluttonous villagers, and, with a tilt of her curious head, she asks Hector, “Interested in capturing her?”

“Interested?” Hector scoffs. He tears the poster off the wall, leaves it crinkled and bunched between his closed fist. His eyes gloss over Anne-Marie’s freckled skin and meet her emerald gaze, he smirks. “I won’t return until I’ve killed the damned witch.” There is a glint of fire in Anne-Marie’s eyes. Hector catches it for the vague time that it is there; yet, believing the sight to be imagined, he does not speak up.

Hector thanks Anne-Marie for the bread. He departs from the bakery as quickly as he had come and traces the sun’s shadow.

Anne-Marie watches the door; it’s slow to shut and fails to do its duty with another creak. She sighs, thinks, Again? When will this ever end? Yet, nevertheless, she stands, rolls up her sleeves and snatches oil from the back of the shop.

She attends to loose screws, bolts that cannot help but scream from the everyday abuse.

By the time Anne-Marie is done, Hector’s figure has long-since faded.